Death and the Courtesan

by Pamela Christie

  Arabella had begun to straighten the room as she talked, not to be helpful but because she needed to be doing something to keep her hands from scratching his eyes out. Wedge had been retrieving objects from under the furniture, but he stopped now, to watch her.

  “Not only have you gone out of your way to stir up popular sentiment against me,” she said. “You have been withholding vital information!”

  “My God. You’re magnificent when you’re angry.”

  “You’re a liar,” she cried, almost beside herself. “An evil, sneaking, selfish liar! How could you stand there? In that dead woman’s apartment? Watching me hunt for clews, knowing that my life depends on finding out everything I possibly can, and simply ‘forget’ to mention that you’re planning to publish her memoirs?”

  “I’m not.”

  “I know that you are, Mr. Wedge. Half of London knows, evidently.”

  “That half is misinformed. I admit that I entered into negotiations with Miss Ramsey before she died, but I never actually saw the memoirs. And the manuscript was not amongst her personal effects. In fact, it has completely disappeared.”

  The room was very close, despite the open windows, and Wedge poured out a glass of water. From a handsome, silver-plated pitcher. Which had miraculously escaped being upset by the vandals. Or perhaps Wedge had brought it down with him. Arabella knew that he lived above the office. She accepted the tumbler. It was Waterford crystal. Wedge poured out a second one for himself.

  “It is fortunate that these lovely things escaped destruction,” said Arabella.

  “They were upstairs,” he said. “I brought them down just before your arrival.”

  “Did you? And why bring two of them? You did not know I was coming.”

  He took her empty glass, set it down, and moved in closer, but Arabella turned away from him to straighten the portrait, which was pronouncedly askew this time. She looked at it briefly, considering.

  “Might I venture to ask you a question, Miss Beaumont?” Wedge’s thrilling voice had grown deeper, softer, unmistakably intimate. He was looking at her in a particular way and standing almost upon her toes. Arabella checked the impulse to step back and then found that she really didn’t want to.

  “Is this . . . for publication?” she asked, turning to face him. Her own voice had acquired a husky timbre, owing to her sudden inability to breathe normally.

  “No, no. In fact . . . I wrote those articles specifically to get you to come out here. Now that they’ve done their job, I won’t need to write any more of them.”

  In the heat of the office, a curl had come loose. Wedge brushed it from her cheek and twined it round his finger. Then he removed her pins, one by one, until the famous auburn hair came tumbling down and fell about her shoulders in russet waves.

  “Why not?” she asked. It required a great effort of will to control her diaphragm, which wanted to squeeze up against her lungs and force the air from them in short, sharp gasps.

  “Because,” he said. “After today, you won’t need to find an excuse to come here. Nor shall I need to find one to come to you.”

  “What . . . was your question, Mr. Wedge?” she asked.

  “Euphemia . . . Miss Ramsey . . . told me that she was intending to give you a section all to yourself, in her memoirs. And I wondered if you knew why that was?”

  He pulled her close and planted a reckless kiss in the hollow of her clavicle.

  “Yes. I think I may . . . enlighten you there. You see, Mr. Wedge, in my capacity . . . as a courtesan to great and powerful men, I am the keeper of secrets which . . . could bring this nation . . . to her knees.”

  “Really?” he murmured. “To her knees? In front of another nation, who was standing up and unfastening his trousers?”

  “My point is—”

  “But surely, Miss Beaumont, I am the one with the point. And it’s making no end of a nuisance of itself right now. . . .” He began to unbutton his breeches.

  “Wait!” she cried. “Before this goes any further, I have to know something: Did you pay Euphemia any money?”

  “Yes. I gave her one hundred pounds.”

  “But I thought you said you never saw the memoirs.”

  “I didn’t. I gave her that money for . . . quite another purpose.”

  Oh, this was intolerable! She was angry and excited and jealous! Arabella was jealous!

  “Why?” she demanded hotly. “Because you slept with her?”

  Now it was Wedge’s turn to be angry. “No, confound it! I didn’t sleep with her! What do you take me for, madam? She was my mother!”

  Chapter 13

  READER, I F****D HIM

  In which Arabella enjoys an afternoon’s diversion and

  visits an artist’s studio, more is learnt of Wedge

  and his mother, Lady Ribbonhat takes the initiative,

  and Miss van Diggle tells a lie.

  “Ionly learnt who she was after my father died, when I discovered certain documentation amongst his papers,” said Wedge. “Euphemia confirmed it herself. She had watched me grow up, from a distance, of course. But she never tried to contact me. Perhaps my father told her not to. I had always believed myself to be the child of his wife, you see. Do you suspect me of murdering her? But why should I? I had been hoping to make a tidy sum from her memoirs, and now that’s all gone to dust. Kill my own mother? Me? A devout Catholic? We have rules about that sort of thing, you know. Besides, what possible grudge could I have against you? You beautiful, clever, fascinating woman! I’d never even met you, more’s the pity. Think of all the time we have wasted! Let us waste no more, I implore you!”

  Arabella cleared her throat. “May I see this documentation, please?”

  “Why? Don’t you trust me?”

  “Mr. Wedge, I do not know you. I should be foolish indeed if I trusted you on so brief an acquaintance.”

  “Fair enough.”

  He vanished through a doorway and returned a few moments later, with a letter in his hand. “This contains a duplicate of the entry in the birth registry of the Church of St. Mary the Virgin, Little Ilford. And, yes, I went out there and saw the original myself. You are welcome to go and see it, too.”

  “Thank you,” said she.

  “You are welcome. Do you know, sometimes I wonder whether Euphemia ever wrote that book at all? It’s a kind of ‘emperor’s new memoirs,’ isn’t it—all this hullabaloo and fanfare, with nothing to show for it.”

  “I have a kind of ledger of hers,” said Arabella, observing him carefully, “with what look to be preliminary notes. Most of the pages have been torn out, though.”

  He shrugged. “It doesn’t sound like enough for a book.”

  “It isn’t. Mr. Wedge, do you know or have you an idea about whose names she might have listed on those missing pages, or why they were removed?”

  “I don’t. Perhaps the murderer does.”

  “I can understand why he might want to remove his own pages, but not why he should have torn out so many.”

  “Saving his friends, too, no doubt. Or perhaps he felt, if he only tore out his own reference, it might be possible for others to guess his identity through the process of elimination. You know, Euphemia told me some of the people she intended to include. I’ve forgotten most of them, now, but it wasn’t only men. As I’ve said, you were going to have a section all to yourself.”

  Arabella decided not to tell him about the pages she had destroyed.

  “Can you recall anyone else, Mr. Wedge? Specifically, anyone who might have known me, as well as Euphemia?”

  “Yes, I can, as a matter of fact. Julia van Diggle, your duke’s fiancée. Now are you satisfied?” he asked, clasping her by the arms and letting his eyes roam up and down her face.

  “Not yet,” she whispered. “But I’m sure that I shall be, provided that you are able, sir, to rise to the occasion.”

  “I already have,” said Wedge.

  And he showed her.

  “I have n
ever felt this way about anybody before, Bunny,” said Arabella. “It was like . . . like being on fire, and praying that nobody would ever come along and douse the flames. I cannot get him out of my mind. The way he walks, the sound of his voice, his smell . . . and I keep revisiting the things that he said, over and over, without even consciously trying to. I don’t suppose you know what I mean.”

  They were lying on Arabella’s bed, for when she spoke intimately of Mr. Wedge, Arabella hadn’t the strength to sit up.

  Belinda snorted. “Certainly I know! I go through this every time! Does Mr. Widget feel the same way about you?”

  “Mr. Wedge has not actually shared his feelings with me, but I suppose he must do, because it’s rather like alchemy, is it not?”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Base metals. They attract . . . I think. Do you understand what I mean?”

  “I understand the ‘base’ part,” muttered Belinda.

  “Well, I don’t. I don’t understand anything about the laws of attraction! When a man feels what he feels, what does he feel? Is it for you alone? Is it because you are you, or simply because you are there? I mean, are you the only woman in the world for him, at that moment, or would anybody else do just as well, and you just happen to be the most convenient?”

  “I think it really depends upon the situation,” said Belinda diplomatically. “Was he considerate? Did he make an effort to create a romantic atmosphere? Did you go upstairs to his bedroom, or did he take you to a nice hotel?”

  “No,” said Arabella faintly, into her pillow. “It happened in his office. On the desk.”

  Her sister said nothing for a few moments. “What a mess you must have left,” she managed, finally.

  “What do you mean?”

  “All those papers, and the broken window and everything. I don’t suppose either of you stayed to clean it up afterward.”

  “Oh, that mess! Well, no, you’re quite right there.”

  “Bell. He didn’t even have the decency to offer you a bed.”

  “He was probably too carried away to think,” said Arabella.

  “Yes. That was probably it.”

  “You disapprove, don’t you? You think there was something ‘wrong’ about it.”

  “Not if he paid you.”

  “I didn’t charge him. It wasn’t a business transaction.”

  “In that case, yes, I do think it was wrong.”

  “I believe you to be right, Bunny.” Arabella suddenly found that she could sit up. “And there was something wrong about the office, too.”

  “Go on.”

  “It had been vandalized, like I told you. It was a mess. But it was a careful mess. Nothing was actually destroyed. No ink was spilled. Presses were overturned, but there was nothing that couldn’t be set to rights again in short order.”

  “That is strange. There was a window broken, you said.”

  “Yes, but from the inside. There was very little glass shard lying about, as most of it was out in the street. It was a small pane, too, not one of those floor-to-ceiling windows, which would have cost the earth to replace. The papers on the floor weren’t scattered about so much as fanned, as if for easy retrieval.”

  “Interesting. Do you think Wanker did it himself?”

  “I don’t know what to think. And there was one other thing; the office was empty of people. Mr. Wedge was there alone. Aren’t newspaper offices generally very busy places?”

  “Arabella, I don’t want you to see that man again.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because he’s dangerous. You feel it yourself.”

  “Yes, perhaps I do. But it doesn’t make me want to stop seeing him, Bunny. It makes me want to see him more.”

  The next morning, Arabella visited the duke’s fiancée, having rescheduled her interview from the day before. It was a tiring ride, and like Miss van Diggle herself, the way was gravelly, tedious, and devoid of interesting viewpoints.

  On arrival, Arabella was shown into a fussy and overheated parlor. Yet her reception was as cold as even Lady Ribbonhat could have wished.

  “Why ask me?” sneered Julia. “I have good reason to want to see you swing, but why should I want to kill this Rowsey or Ramswell or whatever her name was?”

  “Perhaps,” said Arabella quietly, “because your name was listed in her book.”

  Julia blanched, and her hauteur vanished on the instant. “My name? But that can’t be! There wasn’t time!”

  “Wasn’t there?” Arabella decided to pretend, for the moment, that she understood this remark.

  “I’d only just got back before she was killed.”

  “Yes? Why don’t you tell me about that?”

  “I’ve been in France for the last two months, and quite unreachable. Her letter was sent to me here, and it sat on the desk all that time with the other post, awaiting my return.”

  “Whose letter?”

  “This Rowley woman’s, of course.”

  “What did it say?”

  “The same thing they all said; it was the same letter she sent to everybody, offering to let us buy ourselves out of her memoirs.”

  Arabella began to breathe rapidly.

  “Do you still have that letter, Miss van Diggle?”

  “No, of course not! I burnt the disgusting thing!”

  “How much was she asking?”

  “Three hundred pounds! Can you believe the impudence?”

  “Scarcely. What else do you remember?”

  “That she promised to tear out all pertinent sections upon receipt of my checque.”

  So! thought Arabella. Euphemia had torn out those pages herself! Therefore, the ones that remained represented only the people who had refused to pay!

  “Miss van Diggle,” Arabella said. “What damaging information was Euphemia threatening to expose about you?”

  “That is none of your business. It has nothing to do with this matter.”

  “I think you had better let me be the judge of that.”

  “I absolutely refuse to discuss it, you impertinent baggage!” Julia sprang from the couch and rang for the footman. “I should be obliged if you would remove yourself from my house at once!”

  “Very well,” said Arabella, arising from her chair in a movement that somehow managed to express self-possession and resignation both. “In that case, Miss van Diggle, I have just five words to say to you: ‘French ambassador,’ and ‘White House, Soho.’ I should be able to turn up quite a lot of information about you on my own, since you were foolish enough to use your real name.”

  The footman appeared in response to his summons.

  “Get out!” snarled Julia. “I don’t want you!”

  After he had left the room, Arabella gathered up her things.

  “. . . And, lest you try to claim later that I haven’t played fair with you,” said she, “I shall tell you now exactly what I intend to do with the details as soon as I’ve got them: I shall turn them over to The Tattle-Tale editor. Can you imagine? What a grand edition he’ll have! My public execution and your private career!”

  “No, wait!” cried Julia. “What will happen if . . . if I tell you myself?”

  “Then I shall take your revelations to my grave, whenever I get there. I give you my word on that.”

  “How do I know I can trust you?”

  “You don’t. But if you force me to hunt down the story myself, I pledge myself equally to expose you. You believe that, don’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well. I’m not the sort of person who would give my word on one thing, and mean it, and give it on another matter and forget to. You will just have to accept that, for it’s the best I can do.”

  “Please, Miss Beaumont,” said Miss van Diggle, her manner completely changed, “I pray you will sit down. May I offer you some refreshment?”

  “Thank you,” said Arabella. “I should appreciate a cup of tea.”

  Tea was duly brought, and poured, and handed to her w
ith perfect cordiality.

  Miss van Diggle took a cup for herself, too, as though they were old friends.

  “When I was younger,” she said, “I used sometimes to work weekends at the White House. It was fun, you know; my girlfriends and I did it for a lark, and to make some extra pocket money. Papa was very mingy, and he never let me have any.”

  Here she began to cry. Arabella offered her handkerchief, but Miss van Diggle had her own.

  “One day, Mr. Hopper, the proprietor, offered me something special. He said there would be a lot of money in it for me, if I would consent to a three-way, but that the customers were very well-known, and I had to promise never to say anything about our activities. It was Euphemia, of course—she was already getting old, by that time—and the French ambassador, who was younger, and wanting some variety. So I started spending my Saturday afternoons at the White House, mostly in the gold room, but sometimes in the silver, with the two of them.”

  “I see. And have you continued to see the ambassador, on your own?”

  “No! That was years ago! It’s all finished now, I swear it!”

  “Miss van Diggle, you have been in France for the past two months, I think you said? What were you doing there?”

  Julia flushed a dull red.

  “Well, well,” said Arabella quietly. “Still playing in the muck? When you’re engaged to the duke? In some circles, that would not be considered very nice.”

  “I suppose you’ll tell Glendeen,” said Julia sulkily, her eyes on the carpet.

  “Do you? When I’ve already said that I won’t? Perhaps promising never to tell a thing conveys no meaning to your mind, Miss van Diggle, but it does to mine, I assure you. Who else have you told about your weekend romps with Euphemia and the ambassador?”